IV. Flight
Miami, Florida.
1984.
It was hot out that day, but the heat drew people to the beaches, and the beaches were just about as public as you could get in Miami. Middle of the week, middle of the year, middle of the winter, the beaches were crowded, and I was counting on it.
I sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Andre on a bench that hedged up to the sand, in a shady part of the boardwalk that had the natural beauty of a postcard. He was tearing into a chocolate ice-cream cone, and my stomach was churning at the thought of what was coming. Over and over, images of my family came to mind, and then Mrs. Reyes, and Phil, with that shotgun, and then guns hidden in the rafters of the shed. A little arsenal, just across the street from where my family slept. I thought of what little I had seen of the Death Squad, of the head driven on a pike in the middle of the park, and of the way Pete had looked at me, with a special kind of loathing. The only other person who had threatened me like that, who scared me like that, was my dad, and deep down I knew he would never really kill me. Pete on the other hand, seemed determined.
It all mixed together inside, making me tingle with excitement, making me want to vomit, to get this show on the road, and to run for my life all at the same time.
If not for Andre, I might have bolted already.
He tossed his cone in the trash and sat back, squeezing my shoulder with one hand, and staring out at the beach. "You sure you want to go through with this?"
"He threatened my family."
"I know, I know. But you could try to get the guns again."
"Phil is guarding them, and he knows what I wanna do with them. I bet he's still sitting in the shed with that shotgun. No, this is the only way."
"But he already beat the crap out of you once, Mikey. Besides, look at all these people. Do you really think he would be that stupid? Come on, man. We can hide out, figure something out."
"No. I made up my mind."
"I could carry your ass out of here, keep this from happening," Andre grunted. He watched two tourists cross our path, and then stared dead at me, his seriousness disturbing. "What if he decides to start shooting? What if he puts you down in the woods, just like that?"
"Then I go down, and he goes away for murder."
"I swear to God I will tell your mom if you try to go through with this."
"I can do this." I was seriously doubting myself, sweating, my stomach churning, but there was no way I would back down. It was too late. "Just trust me, ok?"
He grumbled, not making good on his threat. He never did.
"If he lays a hand on you again, I'll break his neck."
"He won't catch me."
"I'm just sayin'…"
It was time.
When I was five I got out of the house for the first time. It was the middle of the night and Dad had come home late from some construction job, and the door slamming open woke me. He crashed on the couch and left the door cracked, and I snuck through it. When the adventure wore off and I was in the middle of the road alone, every large object became a monster, every door became unfamiliar, and I felt terribly and sickeningly alone. Mom had come out to the sound of me screaming and even my dad had seemed concerned.
I felt like that now, walking alone through perfectly bright neighborhoods in central Miami. Other people were around, sprinklers were going off, cars were cruising past, and I was alone with my fear for what was about to happen.
Before coming down here, I had called Pete and recanted my offer to help him, challenging him to come to this neighborhood and do something about it.
His enraged threats echoed in my head.
Tires squealed down the road.
A black car sped toward me.
My heart thrashed.
I dashed into the woods, quickly putting trees between myself and the angry tires. The car jerked to a stop and every door flew open. Without the crowds to hear him, Pete flung threats at me as he gave chase through the woods, and the one time I chanced a glance back, I saw three more guys with him, all of them armed.
I got used to fear when I was little, but fear was not always a handicap. It told me how much I cared about something, how fast I could run, how much pain I could endure. Since learning that, few things in life had really, truly scared me, and Pete was not one of them – it was what he said, the threats that echoed through the forest, that put little slivers of fear into my mind. As withdrawn as I wanted to be, as much as I wanted to leave and join the army and never look back, I loved my family. Nate and my mother were my responsibility, and to think of them getting hurt because of something I did terrified me.
But that terror only pushed me further. I tore through vines, scraping my arms up on thorns, nearly tripping in a hole, leaping over a log only to jar my ankle on a rock hidden within the leaves. I relied on memories, breathing in short bursts, my torso burning as my ribs scraped around, that pressure rising with each passing moment.
As the energy left me, the forest broke, and I sprinted into the middle of a crowd of people wearing tacky paper hats and singing. So did the guys chasing me.
I grabbed partygoers and flung them aside, rushing out into the open of a tiny park. I tried to slow myself, but I ended up hitting the ground face first, bloodying my nose, gasping for breath, my legs screaming, the air gone from my lungs, and not an ounce of fight left in me.
Pete was fast behind me, drawing his gun, and the crowd scattered. People shouted in horror. His lackeys shoved their way toward us.
I looked around frantically for the police that Andre was supposed to call to the park, but I hadn't covered half of it when Pete caught up to me and tried to punt my face like a football. I threw up an arm and the force of the kick rolled me several feet.
Pete stomped on my shin, cocked his gun, and pointed it at my chest.
Everything stopped. I put my hands up, trying to look at Pete past the glaring sun. He was panting as much as me, sweating as much as me, with a face young like mine, and a shiny silver gun clutched in one outstretched hand. His expression was a mix between an animalistic rage and a grim satisfaction.
"Please," I said, not struggling, not even blinking. "You don't want to do this."
Pete didn't get a chance to reply. From across the park, a thick male voice shouted, "Freeze!"
Pete was the one to stop this time, his face rigid with shock. I was viscerally satisfied by the waves of understanding that washed over him. His eyes darted toward me as the gun slipped out of his hand. He put his hands on his head, his eyes already blurring with tears.
He was wretched away from me by an officer and I scrambled to my feet. Pete was thrown onto his stomach and cuffed along with his friends.
While they were busy trying to wrestle one of the thugs to the ground, I scrambled to my feet and made a mad dash for the other side of the park. I barely heard one of the officers shout, "Hey!" before I cleared the trees. On the other side, on the little road that led to this park, Andre was waiting in his mother's green Chevy.
I slid into the passenger's seat and he sped off toward home.
"Everything go ok?" Andre prompted.
I held a finger up, trying to catch my breath. "Great… it went… great."
"Your nose is busted up."
"I noticed."
"Did Pete-?"
"I fell. I think I broke it." It was still hard to breathe. I slumped over the dash and stared at the road, feeling nauseas. I could barely focus on the pavement.
Andre put his hand on my back. "You can sleep on the couch. Mom won't be home till midnight."
The couch was lumpy and old, but lying down made me feel much better. Andre brought me ice water to sip on, and we watched cartoons until late in the evening. Nate came over and played some stupid game with Ricky, and no cops showed up to take me into custody. My plan had worked out almost as I had planned it – minus the broken nose – and Pete was on his way to jail for waving his gun around in a crowd like a psychopath.
One of my problems was resolved – the personal one. When my head was clearer, when a little sleep fixed whatever was broken inside me, I could put my mind to protecting the Reyes family.